by Karen Miller
His grave expression softened into a smile. Bending down, he kissed her lips. “I will be in the warlodge, consulting with our shell-leaders. Come to me there as soon as you can.”
“Aieee,” she said, after Raklion had left them. “Vortka high godspeaker, three highsuns after choosing. Has your life grown tedious yet?”
“Tedious?” said Vortka, and pressed his hands to his face. “Aieee, Hekat, I think the god has gone mad.”
“ Vortka !” She straightened. “You sinning man to say so!”
Vortka lowered his hands and looked round the chamber, cold and spare, no trace of Nagarak at all. Were it not for the squirming in her belly, how easy to think he had never lived. “You did not feel doubt when you were made warleader?” he said. “You did not wonder if you would fail?”
She looked at him, incredulous. “I think you are mad. Whatever we are, Vortka, the god has made us. Do you think the god makes mistakes ?”
“No,” he said, after a moment. “It is men who are fallible. The god is the god.”
Tcha. He wanted her to admit she was wrong in giving him that fever. “Vortka, I have no power but what the god gives me. I am its slave, how often must you hear it? The god killed your seed, it has its reasons. It will tell us its purpose, in its time.” She frowned. “Or do you still think a demon made me do it?”
He would not look at her, he turned in his stone seat to stare through the window. “No. Of course not.”
He might not think it, but he was still angry. Stupid Vortka, his feelings were hurt. She said, “I will be gone a long time, riding through Mijak. While I am riding, there is something you must do.”
With a frustrated snort he swung round to face her. “Hekat, while you are riding there are many things I must do! When I was a godspeaker I thought my days were full, I toiled for the god from newsun to lowsun, my idle moments were rare. I never wondered what Nagarak did, how he led this godhouse for the god.” He pointed to a long, low cupboard. “That is full of tablets, godspeaker histories, meant for high godspeaker eyes alone. I must read them, I do not know when. As the high godspeaker I am responsible for every godspeaker and novice in Et-Raklion, soon in all Mijak. It is a large place! I condemn criminals, I assess taxes, I approve travel for Traders, I oversee the breeding programs on the godhouse sacrifice farms and work with the other godhouses to see the bloodlines do not become stale. I examine novices, I sacrifice thrice daily, I read the warlord’s omens, I pray for the warlord’s son.” He stopped, his eyes suddenly smiling. “My son,” he said softly. “I pray for Zandakar. That is no hardship, I pray for him in my sleep.” He sighed. “Hekat, there is no end to the many things I must do, now the god has made me high godspeaker in Mijak.”
“Tcha,” she said, and waved her hand. “I do not ask for many things, Vortka, I ask for one thing. It is not so hard. While I ride with the warhost through Mijak, in the center of the city I wish there to be built a great open godtheater. Zandakar will be warlord of Mijak, there must be a place where he can be seen and admired, where the people can kneel to him and show him their obeisance. Where sacrifice can be made for him, before his people, and sinning criminals can be publicly chastised for thwarting his desires. The god has the godhouse. Zandakar must have this.”
Vortka stared. “And where exactly do you think such a godtheater can be built, Hekat? Perhaps it is some time since you walked through the city. If you walked through the city you would see there is no open place large enough for your vision of this godtheater .”
“Then make one, Vortka,” she said, blankly. “What else are slaves and criminals for?”
He rubbed his chin. “And the buildings already standing where your godtheater would be?”
“Pull them down. Destroy them. This is for Zandakar .” She stood. “I will send a slave, I have drawings on clay tablets. I do not expect you to oversee the god-theater’s building yourself. You are the high godspeaker, Vortka. You will simply see it is done.”
He sat back. “Yes, Hekat. I will . . . see it is done.” His eyes narrowed. “Does the warlord know of this god-theater for Zandakar? Perhaps he might think it should be for Raklion.”
She shrugged. “He can make use of it, he will not need it long. Have you not noticed? He is an old, failing man.” She looked once more around the cheerless room and then at Vortka, in his robes and scorpion pectoral. “The god sees you, high godspeaker. It works its will upon the world.”
She left him thoughtful in his godhouse and walked to the barracks, where preparations were under way for the mightiest warhost Mijak had ever seen.
He did not ask about Nagarak’s ending. He did not ask about the spawn in my belly. That is good, I would not have answered. I will not speak of it. What is done, is done.
Twelve highsuns later, after sacrifices and omens and a public celebration for the warlord’s unborn son, Raklion, Hekat, Zandakar, fifteen thousand warriors and one thousand Et-Raklion godspeakers rode out of Et-Raklion to tame sprawling Mijak to their fists. The fallen warlords rode with them in plain linen, they knew their duty, they knew better than to fail.
The memory of Et-Banotaj and Vortka’s hissing stone scorpion pectoral rode with them in their eyes.
First the warhost reached the city Tebek. Confronted by Et-Raklion’s fierce warhost, Tebek’s vastly outnumbered warriors still wanted to fight. With Raklion and Zandakar silently watching, Hekat brought before them their fallen warlord. With tears in his eyes Tebek ordered them to kneel. Stunned at such a bloodless defeat, his weeping warhost knelt and surrendered.
In Vortka’s name Peklia disciplined the city’s unruly godhouse, placing one hundred Et-Raklion godspeakers in authority there. The Tebek godspeakers she thought most troublesome she sent back to Vortka. With them rode all of the fallen warlord’s family, they would live in Et-Raklion where they might cause no dismay. Also returned to Et-Raklion was Tebek’s capitulated warhost. Stripped of their sigiled breastplates they rode in plain linen to Et-Raklion’s barracks, escorted by five shells of Raklion’s blood-hungry warriors and godspeakers who would smite them if they rebelled.
Tebek city was tamed.
In Tebek’s godhouse its fallen warlord swore obedience to Raklion and after him to Zandakar, on his knees he swore in the god’s eye to keep the warlord’s peace in Tebek and all its villages, or die smitten by the god. Raklion accepted his godsworn oath, Zandakar accepted it, Hekat smiled, and the warhost rode away to the sound of Tebek’s walls falling down.
One by one, in the same fashion, Mijak’s other cities were tamed. Mamiklia, Takona, Zyden and Jokriel, they had no choice, the god’s will was its will. Their chastened warlords swore obedience to Raklion and Zandakar and promised to die if they broke their oaths. The cities were easy conquests, Mijak’s browning had brought them to their knees. The promise of bounty from fat, green Et-Raklion came as the god’s blessing. Some people wept openly, they were so relieved.
City by city, godmoon by godmoon, Hekat’s belly swelled. She did not look at it, she looked only at Zandakar. He rode like a warlord, he heard the oaths like a man. As each highsun saw Raklion grow smaller, more weary, Zandakar excelled in the god’s proud eye. He outgrew all his clothing, she had more made for him. He outgrew his pony, she gave him a horse.
Every day they knife-danced together, they galloped their horses, they gloried in the sun. Every night beside his campbed she whispered: This is Mijak, Zandakar warlord. It is the god’s great gift to you .
And he would shift, and sigh, and smile in his sleep.
The warhost rode no further than dispirited Jokriel. “Beyond here, warlord, is the savage north,” Hekat told Raklion, seated together in their warhost tent. “A rock place, a dry place, forgotten by everyone, even the god, full of lice-ridden goats and a few dry men. We could ride for five godmoons and never see one. There is nothing there, and no need for you to see it.” No need for her to see it, she had left that place behind.
To her surprise, Raklion agreed, he put his hand
on her distended belly. “I am tired, Hekat. I want to go home. I want to be with you when my second son is born.”
She kissed him gently, it did not hurt her. Aieee, god. He had grown so old. When first she knew him he would have scorned her suggestion, he would have taken his warhost into the savage north and torn it to pieces like the wildest sandcat.
In that time, he was the warlord. Truly, he is not a warlord anymore.
“Then when Jokriel is tamed, Raklion, we will go home.”
Before they left the city she spoke secretly in the godhouse with a Jokriel godspeaker. She asked after Hanochek, who had not been seen.
The godspeaker sighed, and looked at the floor. “Ah, warleader. A sad story. He was crushed to death when a dry wall collapsed.”
Dead? Dead? Wicked Hanochek was dead? She swallowed her laughter, she kept her face still. “I see. Yes, that is sad. Make sure not to mention it to the warlord or my son. Hanochek’s death is better unremarked.”
After next newsun’s sacrifice they left Jokriel. Hekat rode with her warhost until they reached Tebek city, then was forced to lay in a padded cart, her belly enormous, her feet swollen and sore. Raklion sat with her, he said to keep her company, but he was worn out, a man of skin with bones beneath it. Zandakar stayed in the saddle, he rode his red horse, he led the remaining warriors in the warhost. He made the seasoned knife-dancers laugh.
Hekat watched him as Nagarak’s spawn tried to kick a hole in her stomach.
Aieee, Zandakar, my beautiful son. You are the warlord, you live in the god’s eye. I was mad to think you needed a brother. No demon spawned could ever touch you. If the god is good Vortka’s omens will be wrong. This brat will die in its birthing. It will never breathe.
Fourteen highsuns later they reached Et-Raklion. She went straight to the palace, and waited for her unbearable pregnancy to end.
“ Aieeee !” screamed Hekat, and dug her fingernails into the arms of the two slaves supporting her. Rancid sweat coursed down her naked body, splashed onto the stone floor of her palace chamber. Fresh blood splattered between her spread legs.
Curse this brat, this is Nagarak’s revenge, it will tear me in two before it is born!
“Courage, Hekat!” Raklion urged. “The god sees you, beloved, do not despair!”
She would have raked her nails across his face if he had stood close enough, if she had not needed to hold on to the slaves for support. Another pain ripped through her, she flung back her head and howled like a dog.
“ Yuma !” cried Zandakar.
Panting, she unslitted her eyes. “You will be warlord, you do not show fear!” she grunted, glaring. “Must the taskmaster explain that again ?”
Zandakar shrank against Raklion and shook his head. Raklion rested a hand on his shoulder, stupid man, always coddling, and said, “There is pain in childbirth, Zandakar. It is no great matter.”
Hekat grimaced. That was easy for him to say, he did not struggle to expel the brat from his exhausted body.
Sidik looked once more between Hekat’s legs. “Warlord,” she said, “the child comes feet first. It is caught inside her and cannot be turned.”
Raklion frowned. “What do you tell me? I am not a healer, you must use plain words.”
Sidik plunged her hands in a basin of water held by her novice assistant. Sluicing away the muck she said, “In plain words, warlord, your son cannot be born in the usual way. More of this will kill Hekat warleader and the child.”
“No!” shouted Raklion. He stepped forward, fists raised, suddenly his old warlord self again. “If Hekat dies, if my son draws no breath, I will see you burned alive on a pyre, I will tear down the godhouse stone by stone, I will pluck out the eyes of every godspeaker and stitch their flayed hides into sandals for my feet!”
Sidik met his fury unflinching. “Warlord, the god would not let you. I can save Hekat and her baby but I will need to cut her open.”
Cut her open ? “What butchery is this, am I a goat?” Hekat demanded, panting. “I am Hekat warleader, I slew two warlords, I gave birth to the next, I dance for the god! You will not cut me open, you will pull this brat out of me, you will—”
Raklion fell to his knees beside the birthing stool. “Hekat, be easy! You must—”
“Cut the brat from your body! I will not be butchered !”
He gripped her shoulder and pressed his lips to her ear. “Is that fear in your voice, Hekat? Do you show fear before our son? Perhaps the taskmaster should speak to you .”
Hating him, hating Nagarak’s spawn that tore her apart, she unclenched her teeth. “Demons eat your godspark, Raklion!”
He kissed her. “You are Hekat warleader, the god’s knife-dancer, you slew two warlords, your son follows me. You can birth our new son, Hekat. I know you can.”
Aieee, god! She did not want this child! But if she fought Sidik she would die and they would cut her open anyway, the brat would live and she would be dead.
I will not give Nagarak his revenge.
Raklion turned to the godspeaker. “Send your novice for Vortka. I want him to wield the knife that cuts her open, he is the god’s high godspeaker, he dwells in its eye.”
“Yes, warlord,” said Sidik, and the novice ran out.
“Be strong, Hekat,” he said, and kissed her eyes. “Hold on to me, we will endure this together. Before you know it we will see our son.”
Tcha, you stupid man. I do not want to see it.
She looked for Zandakar, she beckoned him closer and brushed the water from his cheeks. “My brave little warlord, do not fear. I promise the god will not take me from you.”
“I am not afraid. Yuma,” he said, his voice unsteady. “The god sees you, I trust in the god.”
When Vortka came she was half-fainting from pain and exhaustion. Blindly she tangled her fingers in his robes and dragged his ear against her lips. “Get it out of me, Vortka. Get it out of me now .”
Vortka looked at Raklion. “There will be blood and screaming, warlord. It might be best if Zandakar—”
“No!” she said. “He stays! A warlord cannot turn from blood and pain, Zandakar stays!”
Raklion hesitated. “Hekat—”
“I am not afraid, warlord,” said Zandakar. His bottom lip trembled. “I want to stay.”
“You hear him?” she whispered, she was shaking with pride. “That is my son. Zandakar stays.”
Vortka ordered the slaves to lift her from the birthing stool, lay her on the cold stone floor and pin her legs and shoulders. Turning to Sidik he said, “Be ready to receive the child.”
The godspeaker bowed. “High godspeaker.” She knelt, her arms cradled ready, holding a soft cloth.
As Vortka straddled her spasm-wracked body and unsheathed his sacrificial knife, Hekat looked into his calm eyes and wrapped her fingers round her scorpion amulet. Her heart beat so hard she could scarcely breathe.
“ Now, Vortka. Do it now.”
He nodded. Glanced at the slaves bracing her back, holding her arms. Hekat turned her head until she could see Zandakar. She smiled for him, he smiled for her.
Vortka opened her with his knife.
She screamed until she vomited bile, she thrashed and twisted, throwing slaves aside. The baby was hauled wailing out of her body, she heard Raklion shouting, she wished it was dead. Vortka thrust his hands inside her, she felt his godstone burning, burning . . .
“Hekat!” cried Raklion. He sounded far away. “The god sees you, Hekat, it will not take you from me, I need my knife-dancer, Hekat, stay !”
She was floating above her body. She looked down, incurious, strangely detached. There was Zandakar, her brave little warlord, on his knees and praying to the god. There was Vortka with his hands inside her, arms bloody to the shoulders, his scorpion pectoral wet with blood.
My blood , she realized, and could feel no sorrow.
Raklion shouted and cursed the god, he waved his fists, he demanded she be saved. His thin grey godbraids flailed around his fa
ce, godbells ringing in alarm.
Something small and squalling squirmed in Sidik’s arms. It was Nagarak’s brat, that would please the god. Would her death please it? She knew she was dying.
Vortka healed the damage inside her, she felt her body writhe and twist. He sealed the great gaping slit in her belly, his godstone was as bright as the god’s red crystal. It looked like the red crystal, covered in her blood. She felt its heat sear her, she felt her flesh mold closed, her godspark was seized and sucked back in her body.
She opened her eyes just as Raklion shouted in agony, clutching his chest and sagging to the floor. She tried to sit up, she could not move. She was smothered with exhaustion, her bones were milk.
“Warlord!” cried Vortka. He dragged himself off her and leapt to Raklion. The warlord sprawled on his back, his dark skin was clammy, his lips pale blue.
“I am dying—I am dying—” His words were a thin protest. His godbells were silent.
“Vortka,” she said weakly.
He shook his head. “I am sorry, Hekat.”
The chamber filled with Raklion’s harsh gasping. “The child, Vortka! Show me my son.”
Sidik knelt beside him, showing him the blood-smeared brat. “His name—is Dmitrak,” said Raklion. His voice was faint. “I name him for my brother—who was to be—warlord. Zandakar—”
Hekat watched her son go to him. “I name you—warlord after me, I give you Mijak,” groaned Raklion. “Here is—your brother. Love him. Protect him. The god—sees you in its—eye. I love you, my son. Do not forget me.”
Zandakar was weeping, when would he be strong? “No, warlord.”
Raklion’s gaze was clouding, with an effort he raised one shaking hand. “See this woman? She is—Hekat. She is the empress—of my heart. As warlord I name her—Empress of Mijak. She will rule until Zandakar is a man. Vortka—high godspeaker, do you hear my words?”
“I hear them, warlord,” said Vortka, calmly. “The god hears them also and it agrees. Zandakar is warlord, Hekat is Empress, she will rule until he is a man.”
